


Hung Up

by LiteraryBitca



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5300894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiteraryBitca/pseuds/LiteraryBitca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 2x18. Reddington is taken away to recover, and Liz stays behind. "You've called me every night for weeks-months, now. And it used to be benign, but we both know it's not anymore. You either need to come back... or stop calling." Lizzington.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: They aren't mine. I love them, but they aren't mine. Making no money from this.

Author's note: I wrote this awhile ago, during Season 2, but I hadn't posted it to AO3... remedying that now. :) The story gets spicier as it goes, and contains spoilers for 2x18: it picks up just as the episode ends. AU version of events at this point. 

...:::...

Chapter 1

…:::…

Liz hadn't known what she expected when Dembe brought the Mercedes to a screeching halt in the alley in front of the waiting ambulance and jumped from the car. He had yanked the back door open as a man and a woman ran forward with a gurney, and Red's body was hauled away from her grasp. She had said nothing, and Dembe had only barely paused to toss the car keys onto the blood-soaked back seat to land by her thigh, grab the case containing the Fulcrum, and sprint after Red, climbing into the back of the ambulance before it sped away.

Should she have tried to go with them in the ambulance?

Was she supposed to have followed in the Mercedes?

She had numbly driven herself home, carefully removed her bloody clothes and piled them in the corner of the tiled motel bathroom, and climbed into the shower to scrub at the dried blood on her hands. When she was done, she caught sight of herself in the foggy bathroom mirror and saw the swath of red she'd missed on her neck and cheek. She pivoted and turned the shower back on.

…:::…

Her phone rang seven hours later.

"He's out of surgery. He's not awake yet, but I thought you should know." Dembe's voice was quiet, and kind.

"Thank you for calling, Dembe," Liz said, the tightness in her chest easing a little. "Is… is there anything that I can… that you….?"

"No. We don't need anything right now."

"Okay." Liz didn't know whether to offer her help if anything  _was_  needed, and by the time she'd almost made up her mind, the call had ended.

…:::…

Liz went through multiple debriefings over the next few days, and even a polygraph, proving that she did not know what happened to Raymond Reddington after he was gunned down in the street. She was not asked about the Fulcrum, and she volunteered no information about it. A new case was given to the team from an inter-agency source, and Liz tried to concentrate on their target.

Five days after the shooting, her phone rang while she was brushing her teeth, the number blocked. She hesitated a moment before spitting in the sink and taking the call.

"Hello?"

"Lizzie."

Liz pursed her lips. She looked up at herself in the mirror, and considered what to say. "Is there something you need?"

"Are you asking because you want to be helpful, or because you want to ensure that I understand you won't consider this a personal call?" His voice was steady, but quiet.

"You sound like you're recovering."

"I am."

"… _is_  there something you need, Red?" Liz dropped her gaze, unable to stare back at her own reflection any longer.

"I would appreciate the chance to explain myself. Before, we were… interrupted. I'd like to tell you—"

"No, Red," she interrupted firmly. "I'm glad you're okay. I don't want you dead, but I also don't know how to keep you in my life and retain any semblance of sanity. I don't say this to be cruel, but…" Liz chose her words carefully, and tried to keep her tone neutral. "…we  _are_  done. I meant what I said when I gave you the Fulcrum. You have what you want. You don't need me anymore. You don't need to explain anything. We're  _done_."

Liz hit the 'end' button and set the phone down on the sink.

…:::…

She was picking up her Chinese take-out three days later when her phone vibrated, and she juggled the plastic bag, her credit card, and the receipt in order to take the call.

"This better not be another attempt to try to explain why you kept hiring Tom a secret for two years."

"Lizzie, when I hired—"

Liz hung up the phone and jammed it into her pocket, shoving through the door of the small restaurant with more force than was necessary.

…:::…

Two nights later, she was awoken just after two in the morning by the jarring sound of her phone vibrating incessantly on the bedside table. She fumbled for it, refusing to turn a light on. She recognized the number, and the first thought through her sleep-addled mind was that a call at this hour meant bad news. "Is there something wrong?" she asked instead of a more traditional greeting once she managed to get the phone to her ear.

"No, I…" Liz was relieved to hear Reddington's deep voice for a half-second before she progressed straight to annoyance at the time of night he chose to call. There was a long pause before he continued, "I've never been good at getting a full eight hours of sleep, but I'm finding it nearly impossible this week."

"You're bored." Her intonation made what could have been a question into an understood statement of fact.

"You could call it that."

"It's two in the morning."

"Yes."

Liz hung up and tossed her phone back onto the night stand, rolling over to go back to sleep.

…:::…

The next evening as Liz was trying in vain to find something on television to distract herself, the phone on the bed next to her began to vibrate. She snatched it up, punching the 'mute' button on the TV remote.

"I apologize for waking you up last night."

"Not accepted. You're not the only one who has trouble sleeping. It took me ages to get back to it." Liz scrolled past infomercials and talk shows, her thumb continuing to change the channel with a steady rhythm, her eyes pointed at the television screen without really seeing it.

"I'm sure the thin walls and terrible mattress in that hotel don't do you any favors as far as a good night's sleep goes," Reddington theorized.

Liz began talking in a rush before she'd even realized the subject matter she'd chosen. "I know you couldn't have been working with Berlin, and Tom sure as hell wasn't working for you by the time you turned yourself into the FBI. How did someone you hired to enter my life go so far rogue?" Liz hated that she needed to know these answers so badly. She wished she didn't care.

There was what Liz assumed was an off-balanced silence on the other end of the line. Finally, Reddington replied, "Lizzie, you are a constant source of confusion for me, and while I usually enjoy nothing more than the challenge of a mysterious and beautiful woman, if you don't develop some consistency soon about what information you do or do not want me to provide you with, you're going to drive me crazier than my Uncle Harry, and that man thought artichokes, seagulls, and mail carriers were all agents of Satan."

"Is that supposed to be funny? Is that little anecdote supposed to be charming?" Liz asked rudely, still flipping through the channels without paying attention to anything she was seeing.

Liz heard Reddington sigh. "Regardless of my intent, your tone indicates that you didn't appreciate it. Shall I apologize for that, too?"

"Goodnight, Reddington," Liz said, and hung up.

…:::…

The following night, just after eleven, her phone rang. She picked it up without hesitating, immediately irritated by the expected call.

"It's awfully late, Reddington, I'm trying to sleep."

"I want to talk to you about Tom."

"You want to talk about Tom?" she said, allowing her anger to color her voice. "Okay. Tom was a  _fake_ ; someone who was hired to infiltrate my life and manipulate me in some of the cruelest ways possible. And yet he not only came back to  _confess to murder_  in order to prevent me from going to jail—risking jail time himself—but he helped me when I needed it, and told me the truth when I asked him for it. He's protected me more in the last month than you have. He's lied to me less in the last month than you have. I'm starting to think—"

Reddington's voice interrupted her. "Didn't anyone ever teach you it's rude to talk with your mouth full of lies? It's difficult to understand what you're actually saying. I'd prefer it if you  _swallowed_  first. Then maybe you can try again," Red said harshly before the line went dead.

Liz stared in disbelief at her phone. After being the one to hang up abruptly to end the last four phone calls, her cheeks burned at the admonishment, and indignation rolled in her chest. She set her phone down and glared at it. After a moment, she shoved off the bed and began digging through the small dresser looking for something to go running in. Screw the time.

…:::…

When her phone buzzed in her back pocket the next day as she walked to her car after work, she stared at the screen for so long she almost missed the call. "Hello?"

"I've called so you can apologize—"

Liz hung up and switched her phone into her left hand so she could fish her keys out of her bag with her right. By the time she had her car unlocked, her phone screen had lit up again with a new call, again an unknown number. She accepted the call and held the phone to her ear without verbal acknowledgement.

"Why don't I go first?" Reddington's voice was calm and even. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner about my involvement with Tom. I had grand plans to do just that… many times… but I worried that you would never be able to forgive me, regardless of any explanation on my part, so I stayed silent. I did it to preserve our working relationship, but I understand that keeping it from you was somewhat of a violation of trust."

Liz sat quietly in the front seat of her car, her keys gripped in her hand. She stared out the front windshield at the cement garage wall in front of her. "Is there an explanation?" she asked finally, her voice unemotional.

"Yes."

"I'm all ears," she replied.

There was a long pause before Reddington began, "I hired Tom through an intermediary, for surveillance purposes only. I didn't know who he was; information was passed to me securely and relatively anonymously, just as I requested. From what I've gathered, sometime around five years ago, Berlin found the link from me to you, and when he realized a malleable operative was already in place, he probably paid a hefty sum to swing Tom into his employ instead of mine."

"Explain the passports," Liz demanded stoically. "Tom says you gave them to him."

"I attempted to pay him to leave; gave him a clean weapon, several passports, and a large sum of money he could use to leave the country and disappear from your life entirely. Grey met him in Boston under the guise of an interview for the exchange. Tom took what I offered, but didn't keep his end of the deal. He stayed put."

"Why didn't you have him killed?"

"I hired Zamani."

Liz exhaled harshly. "Boy, you were just hiring people to enter my life right and left there for awhile, weren't you?" she said, irritated, pressing her thumb into the steering wheel at 2 o'clock as if she were squishing an insect. She wanted to fidget, but felt constrained by the car.

"Your turn."

"Excuse me?"

"I apologized. Now it's your turn."

"I didn't hire a psychopath that ended up destroying your trust in the human race," Liz said. "What am I apologizing for?"

"If you died tonight, are you telling me you would regret nothing concerning you and me over the last six months? Any of your actions?"

"If I di—is that a threat?" she asked, recognizing her deflection with a grimace. There was only silence on the other end of the line, and she squeezed her eyes shut, leaning her head back against the seat. After a long pause, she asked quietly, "How're you feeling?"

"I was shot in the chest by a sniper. It's not something most people enjoy."

"Is Dembe still with you?"

"Most of the time."

Liz opened her eyes and sighed, leaning forward to place the keys into the ignition, but didn't start the car. "Are you somewhere safe?"

"Yes."

"Good," Liz replied, not sure what else to say.

"Apology accepted."

"I didn't say I was sorry," Liz was quick to point out.

"No, but I'll take what I can get. If I call you tomorrow, will you pick up?"

Liz considered her options for a moment. "You can try. I might be busy with a case. We'll see." She waited a beat before hitting the red 'end' button, realizing she hoped he noted the difference.

…:::…

To Be Continued.

...:::...

This fic was definitely an exercise... I was playing with writing a story that includes no described actions from Red, just his voice through the phone. Also, I felt the need to practice Liz, since I think she's harder to write. :/ With this first chapter, I tried to find a good spot for Liz in that grey area, post-break-up, when something bad happens. Like you dump a guy, and then the next day his grandmother dies. You want to stick to your guns and not go back to him, but at the same time, you don't want to be cruel, because you know he's hurting.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't make any money off of this. The characters aren't mine. 

...:::...

Chapter 2

…:::…

"What are you working on right now?" Reddington asked her the next night.

"I'd prefer not to talk about work with you," Liz answered, pacing slow, methodical circles around the foot of her bed.

"There was a time when that was the only subject you'd allow."

"You're not involved in our current case because someone tried to kill you. When you no longer have a hole in your chest then you can come back to work." Liz fell silent as she realized what she had said. Her default reaction was apparently to assume that Reddington was still coming back to work with her—with the team—and the FBI. She filed her reaction away for later examination.

It took Reddington a long time to reply, and Liz knew he'd caught what she had said, too. "I can't imagine you think me giving you information over the phone will in any way impede my healing process."

Liz wrinkled her nose, glad he wasn't in the room to see her lack of a poker face. "This one is… delicate. We're doing it by the book."

"And I don't work well with books?"

"You have a history of burning down the library, Red."

…:::…

"Are you up out of bed yet? How much are you able to move around these days?" Liz asked.

"I've been getting gold stars from my nurses."

Liz shook her head. "You have more lives than a litter of cats."

"Good thing, too, considering how many people I've had vow to kill me over the years."

"Yeah, but… I feel like every time someone tries to throw you to the wolves, you come back leading the pack."

His chuckle on the other end of the line warmed her.

…:::…

"You sound 'off' today," Liz said, sitting at her small table drinking a beer.

"Do I?"

"Mmm." Liz hummed her assent while she took another swallow. "You're quiet, and…" She shook her head. "I don't know, your voice sounds… thin, somehow. You feeling okay today?"

"Healing from a gunshot wound is a process, Lizzie. It's not for the impatient."

"Have you had a set back?" she asked, trying to keep her voice casual as she picked at the label on the bottle of beer in front of her.

"I didn't sleep well last night."

"Surely wherever you are they have something to give you? Have them pump you full of something to knock you out tonight—get a solid few hours."

"While I would have relished the idea of that in my younger years, at this stage in my life I'm not a fan of drug-induced impairment."

"Then try some yoga. Meditation. I'm sure you're on good terms with some cousin to the Dalai Lama who can fix your chi or orient your chakras and... I don't know... improve your outlook by focusing your mind on positivity, and finding comfort in hope."

"Hope is not a comforting emotion." Reddington's voice was low and tired.

"How do you figure?"

"If you asked someone who has already received what they wished for to describe the texture of hope, they'd probably tell you it's light and smooth... or warm, soft, and sustaining. If you asked someone whose hope has never been fulfilled, they'd tell you it's gritty, and sharp, and irregular, and it  _hurts_. I've been hoping for things for a long time, now, Lizzie. My hope is anything but comfortable."

Liz leaned back in the chair and brought one knee up to her chest. "What are you hoping for right now?" she asked quietly.

She heard a heavy exhalation through the phone before silence took over. Finally, Reddington responded, his voice carefully more powerful, with a bit of animation behind it, " _Right now_? I'd settle for a younger nurse, and a glass of Louis Jadot Echezeaux with dinner instead of jell-o."

…:::…

"Oh, come on, Reddington. The way you kissed Luli when you brought her in? The way you greet every woman you've ever done business with? You flirted  _shamelessly_  with Samar; you flirt shamelessly with  _everything_. Basically anything that moves. And even then, I think you would bend that rule and flirt with an inflatable cactus if that was the only thing in the room and you were bored." Lizzie pinned the phone to her shoulder in order to open her door without setting down her laundry basket.

"I take offense to that, Lizzie, my standards are much higher than 'anything that moves'. By your estimation that would include cars, Donald Ressler, and that little plastic drinking bird in a top hat that sits on Aram's desk." After a beat, Reddington continued, "And I don't like to be ignored, so Donald is disqualified on that count, too—any time I'm in the room he seems preoccupied with making sure  _you_  are paying him some attention."

"Ressler doesn't flirt with me," Liz scoffed, tipping her laundry from the basket and dumping in unceremoniously on the bed.

"No, you're right; he doesn't. Donald Ressler doesn't  _have_  to flirt with you, Lizzie. He mistakenly thinks he can win you over with his awkwardness and limited use of the English language."

"His  _what_?" Liz asked, amused.

"People always seem to underestimate the seductive power of a good vocabulary."

Liz bit her lip and grabbed two matching socks to pair up. "See?" she said quietly after a moment. "You use big words all the time. Even when talking to Ressler."

"I  _have_  been accused of circumlocution on occasion," Reddington allowed.

"Well,  _that's_  a big word."

"Yes. It is. I don't mean to brag, but some have even said that the size of my—"

"No, no," Liz cut him off, picking more socks out of her pile with a twitch of a smile. "Whatever you're going to say? Don't. I don't want to hear some thinly veiled double entendre that demonstrates just how witty you are," Liz said, rolling her eyes.

"Mmmm. Why not."

"Nobody likes a show-off, Red."

…:::…

"We hit a snag in our case today. And I'm not any help; I can't seem to wrap my head around this guy. Half of his motivation seems like he actually  _cares_ about her."

"And the other half?"

Liz shook her head, climbing onto the bed and leaning back against her pillows to stare up at the ceiling. "It's like he's  _angry_ , too… but not at her."

"I subscribe to Mary Shelley's theory of human beings. In all of us… we have the capacity to love…incredibly, and passionately. But we also have rage, the likes of which can scarcely be imagined. If we can't satisfy the former, we tend to indulge the latter."

"Frankenstein?" she asked, recognizing the author's name.

"Have you read it?"

"No."

"I recommend it. The monster comes across… quite sympathetic."

…:::…

Liz picked up her phone and cradled it between her ear and her shoulder. "No call yesterday," she noted, digging her spoon back into the small tub of ice cream.

"Miss me?"

"Just making an observation," she clarified.

"Well, then I'll just be glad that you noticed."

"You've called to talk every night for two weeks straight," Liz pointed out around a cold mouthful. "I think I'm going to start charging you hourly rates."

"I don't think our conversations have had enough substance to warrant monetary compensation."

"You don't think we've covered substance? Discussed  _anything_  important?"

"I think the conversation between your fingers and someone else's skin is the only truly important discussion you can have."

Liz froze, her spoon having just delivered another bite.

"And those kind of conversations can't be had over the phone." After a long pause, Reddington said, "You've been eating something through this entire phone call." A beat. "What do you have in your mouth, Lizzie?"

Liz withdrew her spoon slowly and swallowed. "I'm sorry, that was rude of me." When Reddington didn't respond, Liz realized he was waiting for her to answer his question. "Vanilla ice cream," she said with hesitation. "So…" Liz put down the spoon and sat back from her dessert. "According to you, for all our talking, none of our conversations have ever been 'important'."

"No." His voice was low in her ear. "They haven't."

Silence reigned momentarily, and Liz realized she was holding her breath. She mentally scrambled for a response, but she felt like she was clawing at an infuriatingly bare surface with nothing to grab onto. Finally stuttering out an excuse about having had a long day and anticipating an even longer one tomorrow, she quickly ended the call, dropping her cell onto the table in front of her as if it were hot. She sat and stared at the phone as it sat next to her gradually melting ice cream for almost ten minutes before she got up, tossed the tub and its uneaten contents in the trash, and headed, agitated and still slightly uncomfortable, for the shower.

…:::…

TBC.

…:::…

Michelle My Belle: thanks for pointing out that Liz should pace. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't make any money off of this. The characters aren't mine.

Author's Note: *blushes*

Chapter 3

…:::…

The next night, Liz felt her cell buzz in her arm band halfway through her run. She didn't answer it.

…:::…

"I thought we'd progressed past hanging up on each other weeks ago," Reddington said when Liz answered the phone the following night.

"I haven't hung up on you recently," Liz replied, a slight defensive edge to her voice.

"You barely finished your excuse before the line went dead two nights ago."

"I don't always have time to spend on the phone with you, easing your boredom, Red."

"Is that why you ignored my call last night?"

"I didn't—" Liz stopped talking, knowing he'd recognize her lie. "I needed a night off."

"I didn't realize I was so taxing."

"You don't realize a lot of things, Red."

"Like what." Liz marveled at the way his delivery of a question could sound like a statement; make you feel like he wasn't asking for an answer, he was demanding one that you were already intending to give.

Liz shook her head in frustration, her eyes closed. "You know, I have half a mind to tell you exactly— I'm  _so_  tempted to—" She trailed off, unable to finish her sentence.

"I know as a profiler, you're trained to over-analyze everything, but Lizzie… Stop thinking so hard. Temptation? Is not necessarily a bad thing. Just know your boundaries," he recommended.

Liz made a scornful sound, low in the back of her throat. "That's funny, coming from you. When have you  _ever_ cared about boundaries?"

"You have to know where they are if you're going to  _push_  them," he replied. "And I've always felt their sole purpose was to be pushed. That's what they're there for."

Liz swallowed.

Damn him.

"Well, yesterday I ran a new personal best mile, and I plan to try to push those boundaries again tonight, so we'll have to chat later." Liz hung up and stared at the phone, the guilt of a lie twitching in her gut. She'd just returned from her run.

…:::…

"Are you planning a quiet night in tonight, or am I interrupting your intention for another run?" Reddington asked in a voice that made her suspicious that he knew she'd lied the night before.

Liz walked into the bathroom. "We had a rough day today," she admitted, unbuttoning her shirt and easing it off both shoulders in front of the mirror. An ugly bruise had blossomed across her left shoulder, and there were smears of dried blood just above her collar bone—she must have missed a spot when cleaning up the scrape along her jaw. She winced as she turned and saw how far a second purple bruise extended down her side. "I am  _definitely_  staying in tonight."

"…are you hurt?"

"I'm still walking and talking. I'll live."

"Do I need to have anyone killed?"

Liz rolled her eyes. "No, Red. We arrested him."

"The question still stands. Did you get hurt because Donald got distracted by something shiny?"

She smiled and shook her head. "Ressler is  _not_ to blame for my injuries."

"Are  _you_?" he asked, his voice softer. "Are you being careful, Lizzie?"

"I'm an FBI agent, Reddington, sometimes we get a little beat up and bruised. If you're not willing to risk getting hurt in the pursuit, you don't want it bad enough."

"Mmm." Reddington's voice rumbled through the phone. "I couldn't agree with that statement more."

…:::…

"We usually talk about nothing in particular," Liz began when she picked up the phone. "I want to talk about something tonight."

"The topic?"

"You surveilled me—through Tom—for several years."

There was a pause. "Yes."

"What useful information did you get from him?" Liz shrugged on her coat and went to stand in the cold air outside her room, pulling her door closed behind her. "What did you learn?" Unconsciously, she began pacing slowly back and forth across the ten feet in front of her door.

"Enough to know I could trust you when I turned myself in. Enough to know you were the one I needed…" A pause. "…to talk to," he finished.

Liz shook her head. He was obviously still unwilling to give her a straight answer. "I still can't figure out if turning yourself in to the FBI was stupid, suicidal, or brilliant, on your part."

"I don't understand why it can't be all three?"

"Still think it was the right decision?"

"Unquestionably." His response was immediate.

"You're recovering from a gunshot wound to the chest," she reminded him.

"I'm quite sure I'd be dead by now if I hadn't imposed myself on you and the team when I did. A bullet hole and a collapsed lung are easier to come back from than death."

Liz stopped pacing and stared out across the parking lot. "You had a collapsed lung?"

After a long moment of silence, "Yes."

Liz took a deep breath. "I didn't know that."

"I didn't tell you."

"Why not?"

It took even longer for the answer to come this time. "I didn't think it mattered. I didn't think you'd care to know the specifics."

It was Liz's turn to wrestle with how to respond. Finally, she said quietly, "I care."

…:::…

"How's physical therapy?"

"Terrible. The doctor is a sadist; that's the only possible explanation for the smile she keeps plastered on her face the entire time."

"Physical therapists get a bad reputation. She's just trying to help you. Just grit your teeth and do as she says."

"I don't appreciate being told what to do unless I'm naked."

"Well, who knows, bring it up with her. You're awfully charming; she might say yes."

…:::…

Liz had come home, aggravated and chilled to the bone after spending the majority of the evening outdoors at their latest crime scene. She'd changed into warm clothes after a hot shower, and had cranked the heat before pulling the chair closer to the noisy wall unit that controlled the temperature in her room.

She was starting to thaw when Reddington called.

After a half hour of talking to him, she was smiling and warm.

"And you just left it there?" she asked as he finished a story. "I don't believe that. You don't deal well with disappointment, and you hate when someone else has the upper hand. Something doesn't go your way, you either pay for the outcome to change or you start with threats and actual violence."

"There are some delicate situations in life when it's best to bow out and move on. I'm not completely blind to those, you know. Like women. One turns you down? Offering to pay her or threatening violence are not appropriate solutions."

"See, even then, you don't strike me as the type to have many women who turn you down. The number of stories you have on the subject  _certainly_  makes it seem like you still get what you want in that part of your life," Liz commented, trying to keep her tone neutral, despite the small flare of jealousy that licked in her chest.

"No man has a one-hundred-percent success rate, Lizzie."

"Then correct my misconceptions. Tell me about one of the one that got away. Who was the girl Raymond Reddington never managed to get?"

Liz had meant it as innocently as asking about a crush  _could_  be intended, but the longer it took him to reply, the more she regretted her question.

Finally, he replied, "Margot Stewart."

Liz gave a mental sigh of relief. "What was she like?"

"Skinny, dark hair, infectious smile. Very slightly crooked teeth, but she was so genuine and confident that any imperfection you could list, objectively speaking, just…  _melted away_  after you spent five minutes with her. She was… spectacular. But the thing that drew me in the most, the thing that made me…  _desperate_ for her… was her habit of touching her lips. A completely unconscious practice, I'm sure, because even when she thought no one was watching, when she was concentrating on something to the point that the rest of the world disappeared into the background of her mind…" He paused. "I remember she'd sit and run the very tip of her thumb back and forth across her bottom lip. It was…  _thoroughly_ distracting. I figured if she had such a personal fixation with her own mouth, she'd probably—" Reddington cleared his throat. "I would have liked to have kissed her."

It took a moment after he stopped talking for Liz to realize she was breathing relatively heavily through her open mouth, and hoped it couldn't be heard over the phone. Her left hand was raised, her fingers so close to her lips that she could feel each of her exhalations on them. She drew her hand away, staring at it as if it were a traitor. The small motel room suddenly felt like a sauna, and she reached out to twist the controls of the heater to 'off'.

"What stopped you?" Liz asked, finding her voice again.

"She was engaged to a friend, and I was already married."

Liz pursed her lips. "So she never knew?"

"I never said anything. But I've been told when I look at a woman I want—the poker face I'm so proud of?—does occasionally… slip."

…:::…

"Reddington," Liz groaned. "It's…" She squinted, bleary-eyed, at the digital numbers on the bedside clock. "…one a.m."

"It's a Saturday, and you're not going in tomorrow—"

" _Today_ , actually," Liz interrupted, grumbling.

"—and you've requested Monday off as well."

Liz rolled over onto her back, rubbing a hand over her face. "How do you know th—you know what? Nevermind." She opened her eyes and gazed up at the ceiling. "What do you need, Reddington?"

"We didn't get a chance to talk today."

"No, we didn't, but what is so important that it needs to be said at one in the morning?"

"Nothing in particular. Call me selfish, but I've developed quite a taste for mine being the last voice you hear before you go to sleep." His voice was low, and in the dark, sleep still muddling her thoughts, Liz could almost imagine he was in the room, hidden in the dim light next to her, rather than just a deep, disembodied voice over the phone.

Liz was suddenly acutely aware of the thin shirt she was sleeping in, and the texture of the cheap motel sheet over her. She lifted her free hand behind her head to absently run her fingers over the wood pattern of the headboard.

"…so is that it…? Are you done?" she asked quietly. "I've heard your voice. Can I go back to sleep now?" She attempted to add an edge of irritation to her voice, but she was disappointed to hear her words come out low and breathy despite her best efforts.

Reddington chuckled. "Mmm. I suppose you can try. Good night, Lizzie."

"You knew I'd be asleep," she said quickly, keeping him on the line. "You waited until you knew you'd wake me up. Because you _knew_  I'd pick up the phone. Was this all just some power play tonight? Interrupt my night just to demonstrate that you can?"

"Good night, Lizzie," he repeated before the phone lit up, signaling the call had ended.

Well, she thought as she set her phone back on the night stand with a frustrated sigh, he was right. There was no going back to sleep anytime soon.

…:::…

"The gown a woman wears to one of those events says a lot about her, Lizzie."

It irritated her that this man, no longer physically present in her life, was giving her fashion advice that she hadn't asked for. She wasn't even sure how they'd gotten on this topic in the first place. Their conversations always seemed driven by him, effortlessly directed and controlled.

"And, in my opinion, a dress makes no sense unless it inspires men to want to take it off you."

Frustrated with his constant double entendres and suggestive answers to innocent questions, Liz stood up purposefully, deciding tonight was as good a night as any to attempt a few shots back in his direction.

"Dresses aren't that special," Liz corrected smoothly, pacing slowly around the room, from one side of the bed to the other. " _Men's_  clothes are inherently more attractive than women's."

Reddington gave a low chuckle. "Oh, I beg to differ."

"I'm serious. A woman can wear an expensive dress and look beautiful. A man can wear a well-tailored suit and look…" She consciously paused for effect; two could play at this game. "… _incredibly_  handsome." Her heart was beating hard, but she kept her voice controlled. "Now… while a man isn't generally considered sexy when he tries on a woman's dress, a woman can look quite provocative when she wears  _his_  clothes."

Liz allowed a hint of a pleased smile to pass over her lips when the reply didn't come immediately.

Finally Reddington cleared his throat. "Call me old fashioned, Lizzie, but I don't think you should start shopping in the men's department—"

"Oh, no, I'm not talking about what we wear on regular basis. To work, to the store. I'm talking about in the privacy of a bedroom… or the morning after…"

Silence.

"There's a reason movies always show the woman sleeping in a men's shirt after sex." Liz's movements became more fluid as she walked, even though her performance was not being watched. "It's not practical—every man owns a t-shirt; sleeping in one of those would be much more comfortable—but the look of a woman wearing nothing but  _his_ shirt… that's sexy."

Figuring she'd gone this far, and feeling somewhat protected by the fact that he couldn't see her, she went on, drawing out her words slowly. She stopped her pacing at the foot of the bed and stared at her empty sheets.

"It doesn't stop at shirts, either. A woman even looks attractive in a pair of his boxers…"

Liz let her eyes slip closed.

"A naked woman with a man's tie draped around her neck…"

"Lizzie."

"…or wearing nothing but his  _hat_."

"Stop."

Liz fell silent and opened her eyes. After a moment she lowered herself slowly onto the edge of the bed as she waited for Reddington to say something. She thought she heard him take a breath, preparing to speak, but no words came over the line, and after another moment, her phone screen blinked a silent message letting her know the call had been ended.

Liz felt the flush of embarrassment on her neck and up into her ears. They weren't in the same room—she had a feeling they weren't even in the same part of the country—but the sting of rejection made her chest burn regardless. She couldn't even put her finger on why she felt rejected, since she mentally insisted—somewhat angrily—that she hadn't explicitly offered him anything.

She  _hadn't._

_...:::..._

Two days and no phone calls later, she came home to find a black fedora hanging on one of the bedposts. She remained frozen for what she was aware was a stupidly long period of time, the door open, her keys dangling in one hand, staring at the object from the threshold of the motel room. She looked around the small space, but nothing else seemed different: her papers were undisturbed on the small table, and her things on the night stand and in the bathroom and closet were just as she'd left them that morning. There was no other sign that anyone had been there.

Finally, after delaying as long as she feasibly could without a new excuse, she walked to the side of the bed and lifted the object from its perch. Hesitantly, she brought the hat up close to her face, but there was no scent, no hint of his aftershave. It was brand-new. A small part of her had hoped that it had been one of his.

…:::…

"No, I don't want your advice on how to handle her, Reddington; your approach would probably be some inappropriate seduction technique involving rare bottles of wine, and trips to Europe on your jet, and Swedish massages and mud baths, and you'd return a week later with the shipping information we needed amidst reports of some priceless painting having been stolen from the penthouse in the building next to the hotel you'd been staying at."

"Well, you've gotten several things wrong there, including the fact that my seduction techniques aren't nearly so contrived. If I'm really trying to seduce a woman, all I have to do is kiss the back of her neck."

Liz said nothing, but moved her hand up, the tips of her fingers brushing under her hair. She shivered.

After a long moment of silence, Reddington asked, his voice low, "Did you just touch the back of your neck?"

"What?" Liz dropped her hand hastily to her side, looking around the room as if she expected to see him standing behind her.

"Just now. Tell me you reached up… and touched the back of your neck."

Liz felt a flash of irrational fury slice through her. "Why did you give me the hat last week?" she asked in response, refusing to answer his question and feeling off-balance and slightly desperate to regain some control.

"You seemed interested in wearing one."

Liz stared at her feet, bare on the ugly motel carpet, and bit her lip.

"Have you worn it?" Reddington asked. Liz didn't answer. Impossibly, his voice dropped lower. "Are you wearing it now?"

"I think we're done for the night," Liz said, and ended the call, snatching the fedora off her head, and tossing it onto the bed on her way to the shower.

…:::…

"We should stick to discussing the weather."

"And why is that?" he asked, amusement evident in his voice.

"Because I think last night's conversation was… unprofessional. Too… intimate. Not appropriate."

"Too intimate," Reddington repeated. "I don't think it was intimate at all. And since we haven't worked together in weeks— _months_ —I don't see how professionalism should even be a concern."

"Really? Discussing the best places to kiss a woman, asking me what I'm wearing? I'm not actually sure what could be  _more_  intimate than that."

"Eye contact. Looking into someone else's eyes is much more intimate than words over a phone could ever be."

"Then we had a lot of inappropriate discussions while we were working together… at the office, in front of other people," she said.

"Let the record show… you said that, not me. And just so you know, when it comes to eye contact… I prefer privacy over exhibitionism."

"This is what I'm talking about, Red, this is…" Liz sighed, frustrated, and ran a hand through her hair. "I'm going to go. I don't think I want to talk to you tonight."

She hung up and grimaced, resisting the urge to fling the phone at the wall.

...:::...

"Red, what are you doing?" Liz interrupted his story. She hadn't even been listening.

"…I need you to be more specific about what you're asking, Lizzie."

"You've called me, every night. For weeks— _months,_  now. And it used to be benign, but we both know it's not anymore." Liz paused, forced her pacing feet to stand still. She looked herself square in the mirror, arranging her expression into one that demonstrated her resolve, as if he could see it. "I can't do this dance with you over the phone anymore. This has to stop. I can't have your voice in my ear every night and not h—" Liz stopped abruptly, refusing to finish the sentence. "You either need to come back... or stop calling."

There was a long pause, and just as Liz was about to pull the phone away from her ear to check if the call had been dropped, his voice came over the line, low and serious. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Tomorrow what?" Liz asked, but he was gone.

She growled in frustration.

...:::...

Just before midnight, exhausted, Liz finally climbed into bed and reached over to switch off the light. Almost immediately, her phone began to vibrate on the night stand next to her head. Her stomach twisted in a cruel sensation halfway between dread and excitement. It was a new number, one she hadn't seen before. She answered hesitantly.

"Hello?"

"Lizzie." He sounded breathless.

"Reddington." His name sounded halfway between an admonishment and a desperate moan, and Liz kicked herself for not hiding her emotions better. "I told you yesterday that you had two choices: either stop calling or come back. This phone call? Was not an available option three. So again, I give you two choices. Either stop calling, or—"

The line went dead. Liz looked down at her phone as her stomach sank.

Liz's head snapped up when there was a firm knock on her door. She stared across the dark room for a moment, her heart beating wildly in her chest. Finally, she eased slowly out of bed, and padded toward the door. The side of her mouth twitched up into a smile as she reached out to grab the fedora from where it sat on top of the TV, and palmed it onto her head.

She opened the door and stood still against the blast of freezing air that rushed into her room. Reddington looked her up and down, taking in her bare legs and thin shirt, and came to rest on the hat. He gave a harsh exhale and took a short step forward, but stopped just before he reached the threshold, as if he was waiting to be invited in.

Beginning to shiver—from the cold, she told herself—Liz stepped forward, her eyes on his mouth, and raised onto her toes, her intent clear, but she was halted by Reddington, who placed a firm palm just over her sternum, keeping her from closing the last foot of space between them.

He could feel her heart pounding under his hand, and applied gentle pressure to drive her slowly backwards into her room. Once she had cleared the threshold, he lifted his hand and dropped his gaze from hers, pushing past where she stood to enter the motel room.

Liz swung the door closed and threw the deadbolt, her back to Reddington. One of his arms snaked around her waist from behind, and he laid his palm flat on her stomach, stepping forward to press the length of his body against the back of hers. His other hand reached up to tilt the fedora forward on her head, and Liz felt him brush her hair to the side.

"I like your hat," he murmured, his lips against the back of her neck, and she smiled.

…:::…

End.

…:::…

Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who takes the time to read and review!


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